The memorial service for my uncle was a tremendously moving experience. I've known my uncle my whole life but learned a lot about him I didn't know during the hour-and-a-half service. He's an even more colorful character than I realized. I knew he was a great storyteller and heard many of the stories myself, but I also found out he was the kind of person who inspired stories and legends about him through the sheer force of his personality. People spoke quite eloquently about his life and recounted long humorous tales that were emotionally rare and totally captivating.
I couldn't help wondering what kind of service might be held for me when I meet my end. I'm much duller than my uncle and doubt that people will carry on in the same fashion with equally fascinating stories. More likely, the remembrances will be rather brief: "He was a man of few words..." "He didn't volunteer much..." "From the looks of it, he might have been intelligent but it was hard to tell..."
On another note: I had my dates mixed up and missed the 2d anniversary of that little blog known as Call Me Snake. I can't believe I've been doing this for two years. I never planned on doing this in the first place. I guess you could say, to quote Bill Clinton, that I did it "for the worst possible reason--just because I could." Because all it took was 3 easy steps--or maybe, in my case, 10 difficult steps, but let's not nitpick here. This is a time of celebration. Anyway, I experimented one night because I could and two years later, I'm still experimenting. I suppose because I can.
As I said before, I never figured on doing this for so long. But I must be getting something out of it right? It is fun, I think. At least I tell myself that at times when I'm not doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing. And it's nice to have a place to put down those ridiculous thoughts that maybe, just maybe, nobody else in the world is having--not because they're so brilliant but rather because they're inane in a uniquely, idiosyncratically peculiar way. Well, all right, it has been fun. And if that's the case, it's mainly because of you--the incisive comments I never figured on getting and the many brilliant entries to the many ridiculous contests we've held over the years: bumper stickers, epitaphs, Rocky Balboa quotes, and the like. I'm going to stop being a curmudgeon long enough to say thanks for hanging in there with me during those months of entries about Antoine Walker, plus my mad ravings about coupons and Solaris and Whole Foods and 7-11 (which I still haven't sat down in front of, tempting as it may be). Adios amigos, as they say in the land where I'm going; see y'all in a week or so.
I already told you mine: "Not his best effort." Old Roses submitted: "Excuse me while I compost." Turd Blossom needed time to think about an epitaph but did offer the following epithet: "F___ you, Rummy!" If anyone else wants to speak up, this is your chance. Though hopefully not your last chance.
Without giving too much away, the movie concludes with the hero (played by Lenny Baker) leaving his old Brooklyn neighborhood to embark on a new, and potentially promising, career. The idea, it seems, was to end on a high note, a note of hope, and what better way to convey that than by showing a group of kids playing handball on the streets of Brooklyn? The scene only lasts a minute, and possibly a good deal less than a minute, yet its impact will stay with you forever.
The message, at least to me, is obvious. It's OK to start a move with volleyball, as in "Top Gun," where the volleyball scene came pretty early on, if memory serves correct. But if you want to leave 'em laughing, or even crying, you could do worse than ending with handball. It worked for Paul Mazursky, and maybe it could work for you too.
